


Playing The Man

by Merixcil



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: M/M, Murder, Suit Porn, alfred is a batjokes cheerleader, i introduce an intriguing mystery nd then drop it for no good reason other than suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-31 22:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13984749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/pseuds/Merixcil
Summary: Joker makes Batsy some sick new threads





	Playing The Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [melody1987](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melody1987/gifts).



> Hey look it's that tailor!Joker fic i've had kicking around the place for four million years. Fun!
> 
> Dedicated to Mel bc it was with her that I first discussed this concept many moons ago

In a past life, he might have been a tailor. Every now and then he likes to play with the idea of what might have come before, be it a stellar career as a chemical engineer over with the ACE Corporation, a life of hard honest work down at the Gotham docks or a mixed bag as the Mayor of this marvelous stinking city.

Today though? It’s a tailor sort of a day. Which is handy because Joker’s really starting to run low on decent threads. His figure is far from base model and that garbage they stick on the racks simply won’t do. From tail coats to under shirts, it’s all got to be cut to fit his wide shoulders, garishly thin hips and legs for days (if he says so himself).

The garment district of Gotham is a shit show, little more than a string of warehouses that like to think they’re part of the ethical production chain despite being a first world answer to the sweatshop. He always forgets how gloriously dilapidated it is, laughing at his own foolishness as his feet cast ripples across half flooded streets flanked by the chipped corrugated iron architecture that is so in vogue round here.

It takes a few well-placed kicks to get the door of his favourite hangout off his hinges and he’s somewhat disappointed to find that the night guard is still asleep at his desk after all that effort. The balding idiot had his head knocked back, sporting a magnificent trail of drool down one cheek, a porn rag spread open on the desk advertising the services of girls barely out of high school.

Joker finds a handful of sharp pointy things in the supply closet and uses them to truss the sad sack up like a pincushion. No use in letting him wander around, calling the police or whatever it is security guards are supposed to do other than die. There’s so much to do and he only has till the morning shift starts to do it all.

Out on the work floor, ginormous rolls of fabric form a storm of colour in every shade a man could ever want from rich purples to a yellow so bright it makes Joker’s eyes water. He snatches up reams of anything that looks exciting and makes a beeline for the nearest cutting board. No need for patterns or chalk to guide him, he could do this shit in his sleep. No one else can cut the cloth to account for the extra space his legs need to run, or to fit his jackets tight enough to his ribs to be snug. He works his way through the stack of fabric in a delightful frenzy, collecting sharp objects from the night guard when he runs low on pins.

The last suit in his assembly line looks odd right from the get go. Joker holds it up in front of the mirror, frowning at how baggy it seems. He gives it the benefit of the doubt but sure enough, when he pulls it on it leaves acres of space dangling sadly across his hips, making him look like a middle aged detective trying to pay his way through a third divorce and stuck wearing the clothes he bought when he could afford to throw back the doughnuts.

How thoroughly bizarre. Joker laughs at his reflection. What in Earth had he been thinking when he stitched this hunk of junk together? It’ll have to go. Shame. On the right person it would be a lovely little number.

Joker slams his hand into his forehead in recompense for being so stupid. The right person – but of course. The extra space in the arms, the stubby little legs. This isn’t for him.

So the suit can stay, but the question is now one of practicality, ensuring that the suit reaches its intended audience with minimal fuss. Joker’s got something planned for next week, or was it tomorrow? He might have already gotten the show started and is here to kill time while he waits to swagger in to the fray. He forgets the details but the point is that it’s going to be wonderful watching everything fall in to place.

As he passes the night manager on his way out, Joker looks down to find him covered in dozens of small cuts. He’s been whining something awful since the nail came out of his abdomen, and the place is really starting to stink.

Joker holds up the all wrong but alright suit. “Do you think my boyfriend would like this? You know what boys like, you are one.”

The night guard makes an ugly little noise that sounds suspiciously like a mean swear word so Joker kicks him in the teeth and tries not to laugh loud enough to call too much attention to himself.

“No use asking you, you’ve got no taste.”

Maybe the night guard never moves again, maybe he lives a long and happy life devoid of nice things. Joker wouldn’t know. Ten minutes later he’s skateboarding through Chinatown with a stack of purple suits and brightly coloured shirts stacked on his head and he’s forgotten the pathetic little shit ever existed.

 

 

The bomb below the office block is problem enough on its own, but there’s something unfamiliar mixed in with the usual shrapnel and half-baked fuel cell that Bruce doesn’t like. His attempts to get a sample for analysis have so far been fruitless as whatever it is is highly corrosive and has melted through every container he’s tried. Gauntlets or not, he’s not picking it up in a hurry. Gotham General is treating hundreds of victim’s for burns and has had to pronounce more than a few people DOA.

It behaves like napalm mixed with hydrofluoric acid and a handful of plastic explosive thrown in for good measure. If the wider criminal populace gets a hold of it, it’s going to cause some serious damage.

Gordon appears at Bruce’s shoulder, looking like he hasn’t slept in a month. Marital trouble, Bruce suspects, the commissioner has always struggled to convince women that he’s worth they’re time.

“Fire and rescue found a group of ten that escaped unscathed. Elevator was in the basement and they were in the elevator. About the only time I’ve been pleased to see anyone riding one of those death traps in a crisis. You remember that time-“

“I’m going to examine the edge of the blast zone.” Bruce cuts him off before he can start rambling. “I need to see how far the shrapnel was thrown.

Gordon nods. “Right. Yes. Good. Thank you.”

Bruce pushes off the ground and lets the grapple do the rest of the work. A few blocks away from the former office tower and the weird napalm like substance has set fire to the pavement, sending sparks high into the night air and painting transient constellations against out of date billboards. Firefighters move from fire to fire, decked out in the thickest uniforms the department has to offer. Unlike the beatcops littering the area, they don’t get out of the way when Batman approaches.

“Do you have any useful information on the nature of this chemical?” Bruce asks a woman barely more than twice as tall as the hose she’s valiantly dragging along behind her.

She lets out a low whistles and shakes her head. “Beats me. Some of these are going out with water, some with CO2. It’s a nightmare.”

He grunts something that might be thanks and moves on to inspect the outer ring of rubble. There are a few bodies that haven’t been moved yet, most taken down by bricks to the head though one of them has a burn the size of a dog bite running up their side. You never want to be on the edge of a disaster. People assume that ground zero is the most dangerous place to be but more often than not, the cumulative effects of all the things that can possibly go wrong fan out, gathering traction till they break like a wave.

But Bruce isn’t looking for survivors, he’s looking for evidence. Something to tie this to a perpetrator. He has a few ideas as to who could be behind this but experience has taught him never to place too much weight on his first or even his second assumption.

“Hey, Batman!” Bruce looks up from a rusty screw that’s been blackened by the belly of the bomb to see the firefighter from before lumbering towards him. She’s had to turn up the bottom of her legs on her suit so she can walk.

There’s something tucked under her arm, far too solid and clean to have some from the blast site. She brandishes it under Bruce’s nose, grinning. “Buddy of mine found this over on fifth. Thought you might like to know.”

She passes the item over. It’s a gift box wrapped in lilac paper with a bright orange ribbon tied around it. A small silver jester is embossed on one corner of the paper, smile slightly subdued as if loathe to spoil the tasteful aesthetic of the package.

Bruce sags ever so slightly as he takes it from her. “Thank you.”

The firefighter grins. “You’re welcome.” She graces him with a lay salute then dashes off to join her colleagues.

The package is suspiciously light, unruffled by the blast and clearly a plant. He hates this, the obvious trap that he can’t help but want to pick apart. The last time he left one of The Joker’s devices to the GCPD, seven officers lost their lives and the fifteenth precinct had to be rebuilt from the ground up.

Bruce buzzes in to Gordon’s walkie talkie frequency. “I’ve found something.”

“Right. Great. Anything I need to know about?”

“I hope not.” Bruce hangs up and heads for the batmobile. To think he started the evening hoping for a quiet night.

 

 

Waiting is the absolute worst. Joker’s heard the one about how revenge is a dish best served cold thousands of times, usually from tiny minded people, incapable of stringing together a decent scheme. People only expect you to be patient when they think you’re too dense to fight the rapid backlash of time and transient rage.

But this isn’t revenge, this is courtship. A little experiment to test how well he knows the object of his desires. The Batman has been awfully quiet since Joker was so kind as to leave him a little present. The hulking black nightmare thing can still be spotted in the distance if you really know what to look for but he hasn’t felt so present, heart not in it, trying to rekindle that old flame.

On second thoughts, Joker’s not really sure why he thought this would work. Batsy is paranoid to a fault and already has his own swanky 'fit to see him around town. Logically, it doesn’t make much sense for him to give all that up for one measly suit.

Logic's got nothing to do with it, this is about emotional intelligence. There’s a pop psychology buzzword if ever he heard one. Joker has to laugh at himself, it’s a plan so cray it just might work.

“Patience.” He growls to himself, descending into a hovel at the edge of the city that is testing him to his very limits. If he gets bored of twiddling his thumbs, he can always go extort himself a nice hotel room for the night.

 

 

A week after the bomb and Gotham General has reported an almost one hundred percent fatality rate for people hit with Jokers new chemical and the package is sitting in a locked draw underneath the computer bank in the cave.

“I’ll be up for dinner in an hour.” Bruce lies.

Alfred’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly as he stalks back up the stairs to the Manor. “Whatever you say, master Bruce.”

Bruce waits for the door behind the grandfather clock in the study to swing closed before he pulls out the package. The ribbon is long since discarded, and for the eighth day in a row, he holds his breath as he lifts the lid to see if the contents have changed at all.

The diagonal cut of wide lapels over a folded double breasted suit jacket stare up at him, cut from a deep purple cloth. No visible label, what stitching he can see is as neat as any tailor.

It looks bespoke, which does nothing to convince Bruce that it’s not dangerous. He’s been steadily working through a variety of materials, from the Kevlar of the batsuit to wooden tongs to stainless steel needs, trying to establish what chemicals might be hidden in the fabric. So far, nothing has been damaged, even after leaving it overnight, and he’s willing to try touching it with his bare skin just to speed the process along.

Cautiously, he reaches out and runs an index finger down the length of a lapel. He holds his breath as he waits to pick up a chemical burn or for his skin to start rotting away and is thankfully disappointed. With his hand still intact a minute later, he’s feeling bold, sweeping his hands over the front of the jacket and slipping inside the neckline to hunt for hidden traps.

Nothing. Bruce frowns. No doubt when he finds the catch he’s not going to like it. He tips the box over and lets the cloth fall over the keyboard, finding a pair of trousers behind the jacket. It doesn’t get far before it holds its shape, the fabric is not overly thick but the wool high quality all the same. There can’t be many places in the city that stock this calibre of cloth in this colour. That narrows down his investigation.

He unfolds the jacket and holds it up to see its silhouette in the light from the computer screens. He’s caught off guard by how much space has been left for the waist and the shortness in the cut of the arms. It doesn’t look like this was made with The Joker in mind.

“Oh.” Bruce holds the jacket against himself and everything falls into place. He doesn’t need a mirror to confirm that it’s more or less made for his measurements.

Bruce pulls the edges of the cloth as tight as he can around himself and notes the way the jacket follows the lines of his waist perfectly. The trousers look like they leave space for his thighs without billowing around his ankles – no small feat if the failure of past tailors is anything to go by.

Only one way to be sure.

The Manor CCTV shows Alfred busy in the laundry room and Damian tucked away in the library, trying to read his body weight in books by the end of the week. Bruce still takes the precaution of locking the door down from the study before he starts. Staring firmly at the back wall of the cave, he sheds his work clothes and pulls the suit on over his undershirt, telling himself that as long as he’s not wearing a dress shirt the picture will be incomplete and he won’t know how well it fits him for sure.

Right now it feels like a second skin, cut so neatly that the fabric barely bunches over his shoulders when he lifts his arms. Not one stitch has been wasted, no room left without obvious intent. He could have been poured into it.

With sickening certainty, Bruce knows that the clown put this together himself. Where he got the measurements from is hard to say, but there’s no other explanation when it fits so well. He smooths his hands down his front, banishing non-existent kinks in the fabric.

He thinks about the length of Joker’s torso, his inseam, whether or not it would be possible to pull the same stunt in reverse to get the clown into a black tux. For all the time Bruce has spent being fitted for suits, he doesn’t know much about the craft.

He could have it destroyed, he supposes, but it seems like such a waste. Sparing a glance downwards to be sure that the trousers really do pinch in around his ankles as they ought to, Bruce shrugs out of the suit, packs it away in the box and tucks it back into the drawer till he can find a more permanent home for it.

 

 

Bruce has been acting strangely for a while. Initially Alfred put his withdrawal down to the complex mixture of grief and hyper focus that comes with deadly attacks by unknown perpetrators but after his second week of being uncommonly moody and unsociable, Alfred has concluded that this is not what Dick would refer to as The Joker Blues.

This is secretive and quick to make excuses for its conspicuous absence from the daily running of the Manor as Bruce never bothers to be. A quick glance at the morning’s tabloid showed no fewer than three gossip rags wondering where Gotham’s favourite gallivant has gotten to. The boy’s got to get out of the house.

It’s a sunny Tuesday morning, and Bruce has either headed to the cave early or has yet to cease his work from the night before. He claims that he’s testing the substance that had killed all those poor people who were caught in that explosion from the office block in the Diamond District but Alfred’s been down a few times to clean and he could swear that the lab hasn’t been touched since the third night after the Batman first came back looking harried and distant over this problem.

Waiting for Bruce to divulge whatever’s bothering him is proving a thoroughly joyless exercise. It would all be so much easier if he had the decency to lie properly but he’s not even pretending to store the napalm like substance in the cave anymore, if he ever had any which is doubtful considering that the GCPD have yet to find a material that it won’t burn through so transporting it is futile. It’s going to be a long time before the Diamond District is fully passable again, as it loses its potency at a snail’s pace.

Bruce has been mostly silent about the incident, which usually means he’s found something more insidious to worry about. But if he’s not going to tell them all what’s bothering him, the best Alfred can do is get on with his working day. The dusting and polishing is endless, there are a quite frankly bewildering array of bathrooms in the Manor that need cleaning and the place is fit for bursting with antique furniture that needs specialist maintenance.

By the time Alfred makes it to the master bedroom, lunch is long past and Bruce has yet to leave the cave. Nothing but the bed is ever really used in here and it never needs more than a cursory once over and a change of sheets to look spick and span.

He goes to pull the clean sheets from the top of Bruce’s wardrobe and a handful of moths fly out through the open door. Alfred’s heart sinks, looking at the row of woollen suits filling most of the rack. They’re universally expensive, mostly fine examples of men’s fashion and some of them once belonged to master Thomas. It would not do to have them damaged by a hateful pest when they still have years of wear left in them.

Alfred sorts through the wardrobe with grim determination. A handful of suits have had obvious holes chewed through them. They can be patched up and sent to charity shops but they’ll never be up to snuff for Bruce Wayne to wear them in public again. As he approaches the middle of the rack, his hand sinks into the mess of fabric and lands on something unfamiliar. He knows all of Bruce’s clothing quite intimately and this is entirely too soft for any piece that he knows of. With more violence than is perhaps warranted, Alfred drags it into the light to get a positive ID on the intruder.

When the lurid purple hits the light, Alfred is so surprised he drops the suit. If he didn’t know any better. He’d say that the colour were familiar for all the wrong reasons.

Once he pulls himself together, a quick appraisal reveals that the stitching is beyond compare and the suit looks to be cut to Bruce’s size. There are no labels, and in the breast pocket of the jacket he finds a bright orange ribbon that clashes horribly with the purple cloth.

It’s the sort of thing he would have expected Bruce to do away with as soon as look at it, the fact that it’s here at all is more than a little disquieting. Alfred has a rather nasty feeling that this suit has something to do with why Bruce has been acting like a child with a secret.

Until he’s willing to talk, it would be unwise to get rid of the thing. Alfred begrudgingly checks the suit over for holes, finishes with the rest of the garments and throws a couple of mothballs into the bottom of the wardrobe. It would be so nice to forget about this in a hurry.

 

 

“It’s been too long.”

The Bat whirls round, shoulders hunched forward like someone’s gothic maiden aunt. Joker’s used to sneaking up on people, but they don’t usually give him the full drama queen act for it. Batsy’s mouth falls open in surprise, pulling his cape into odd shapes over his body that look like they're meant to comfort rather than intimidate.

How frightfully boring of him. Joker hitches his mouth into a sneer and lets his rage bubble over into his frivolity.

To his credit, Batsy recovers quickly, straightening up and letting go of the cape in rushed increments. “I need to talk to you.”

Gods about that voice. Lightning crackling on the edge of an abyss too deep to cross. Joker dreams of that voice whispering sweet torment to him in the dark, solidifying and writhing against his skin till it’s just another manifestation of the awful he wishes the Bat had the guts to bring down on both their heads.

Joker makes a show of leaning back against a worn down steam vent with a beleaguered sigh. “Lemme guess, you wanna know how I knew how much space to leave for your balls to hang loose in those trousers. Well, a magician never reveals his secrets but let’s just say that you weren’t entirely conscious for all our dates.” He would say more but the words get swallowed by his laughter.

The Batman’s sense of humour remains awful as ever. He lunches forward, punching a dent in the vent where Joker’s head had been just a moment before. “Tell me what you put in that compound you put in your last bomb.”

“How should I know?” Joker shrugs. “I’m a fugitive from the law, operating with minimal resources. I pretty much threw together whatever I had on hand and hoped for the best.”

Batman growls, animalistic and raw. Joker can’t help himself, he slides a hand over his crotch to meet the growing erection trying to tent his underwear. Nothing subtle about that. A flicker of disgust crosses his paramour’s face.

“You sure you don’t wanna talk about something else?” Joker hisses.

Batman’s eyes narrow through the cowl. “I’m taking you in.”

The string of laughter connecting the two of them stretches out over the city till the night rings with the buzzing of whoopee cushions and the shrill hum of batarangs missing their target on every turn. As the sun tips over the horizon to hail the morning, Joker catches his breath long enough to form a coherent sentence.

“Next time, what say we skip the foreplay and just go dancing like regular folks?”

The chase continues till they break down or are scared back into the shadows. Joker’s not quite sure who caves first, but he’s vaguely relieved to come home to his current hideout rather than an Arkham cell.

 

 

It’s a disappointing reality that Bruce can afford more days off as Batman than he can as the heir to the Wayne family fortune. Gotham is still on edge, waiting with baited breath for Joker’s next strike and as far as he’s concerned they’re right to worry. But high society life goes on, seemingly unphased. There are dinners to attend, charity balls and galas to be seen at, good words to be put into politicians’ ears.

He doesn’t understand how anyone can find headspace for it when their home is crumbling around them. He wants to be out in the city, kissing the dregs of moonlight that make it through the fog, solving mysteries, breaking bones and resetting the world into a pattern he finds more accommodating.

“Alfred, can you bring me the Zegna? The vintage one in dark grey. Maybe a little colour in the waistcoat.”

All the kids are out tonight, Bruce prefers them to be when he has to pull on this particular mask of an evening. They all look at him strangely when he flashes his tabloid smile.

Alfred marches into the room with an armful of clothing. Tonight’s benefit is to raise funds for building wells in Southern Sudan, hosted by the Gotham Met. Typically, museum events are a jovial affair but the invite had been just tidy enough that Bruce got the hint to keep the dress code tasteful.

But Alfred has not brought in the Zegna, or anything else in respectably muted greys. The suit he’s selected seems to ripple in a non existent wind, the garish purple too much for all but the bawdiest of parties.

Bruce sucks in a breath. “I can’t wear that.”

“Can’t is a very strong word, master Bruce. I can well imagine that you wouldn’t want to wear it but it’s a crime to let a piece as nice as this rot away at the back of your wardrobe.” Alfred fixes Bruce with his most carefully emotionless stare, the one that manages to drip derision without even trying.

Bruce shakes his head. “Alfred…”

“Put it on.” Alfred pushes the suit into Bruce’s hands and makes to leave.

The fabric is so soft, the cut is unusual without being extravagant. He could look magnificent, just for one night, peacocking through Gotham and claiming ignorance should anyone ask if the colour wasn’t a little too similar to that of their worst nightmares.

It’s just purple…

“I don’t think this is appropriate for the mood of the evening.” Bruce pleads.

A smile without humour crosses Alfred’s face and he rolls his eyes. “Really, sir. You can do better than that.”

He’s out of the door before Bruce can get another word in.

 

 

Disguises are unfortunate but necessary; drabbing down is hardly Joker’s idea of a good time but as always, you gotta be patient if you want the finale to really work. Tonight he’s risking it all in an auburn wig and a dark blue suit in the hope that the Bat will put in an appearance. Not that he has the faintest idea what the idiot looks like in mufti, but he’s sure he’ll know when he sees it.

He slips between the gathered starlets and paparazzi, moving with harried purpose and keeping his head down. No one pays him a blind bit of notice. They’re not really looking.

Every Gothamite who’s ever been anyone in this town had turned out for this knees up, coming through in black and grey like this is some sort of funeral for all the fun in the world. The high vaulted ceilings sneer down at them, mindless drones swarming on the floor but unable to rise any higher. All that empty space and the morning papers will insist this place was full.

The crowd parts in the way crowds only ever do when you need to catch a glimpse of something important on the other side of the room; a learned response from a diet of overly dramatic TV. Joker holds his breath to keep from laughing and the effort strains his diaphragm.

He has a sixth sense for some things, so many things that he should probably learn to count a little higher but six is such a nice, round number. When a punchline is particularly terrible, when a mouse would rather risk it all between the cat’s teeth, what it feels like when Batsy steps into the room. The rest of the world falls away and if the floating bits of dust that pass themselves off as people thought they were collateral damage before they are drowning in their insignificance now.

The Bat looks magnificent. Joker knew he would but it’s one thing to know and another thing to see the proof before your eyes. Spandex doesn’t do his figure full justice in the way that marvelously purple suit is doing right now. Thighs like tree trunks that Joker’s desperate to climb and an ass sculpted by the gods themselves. To say nothing of those broad shoulders, the neat trim of his jawline, the desperately slow swell of his chest.

It would be easy to ignore the derisive look of some elderly so and so who thought she was going to steal the show in last century’s pearls. Easy and boring. Joker leans down and digs her in the ribs. “Isn’t he a dish?”

Her eyes narrow. “I don’t catch your meaning.”

“I mean I wanna suck his cock till he screams.”

The old bag does a pretty spectacular double take. By the time she gets round to whining about inappropriate language Joker’s long gone, striding out across the floor to meet his partner. If anyone thinks he’s about to pass up a shot as a fairytale dance montage just because they’re too chicken to break the ice, they're in for a shock.

At first, Batman’s eyes glance straight off him and a mixture of triumph and disappointment stirs in Joker’s breast at having put together such a convincing disguise. But the Bat returns to him, blinking back confusion. Out of place and exactly where they’re both supposed to be. Like sticking the toilet in the kitchen – practically sound but social mores say you’re not supposed to.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Joker smiles down at him. Out of uniform, their height difference is more pronounced.

The Bat keeps the same straight face as ever. “That’s my line.” He doesn’t protest when Joker slides an arm around his waist and pulls his arm up into starting position for a waltz.

Joker swings them into a lazy little dance, set to music that’s real enough in his head that it might as well be echoing off the rafters. “Look at you, coming quietly.”

“They don’t know what they’re looking at.” The Bat huffs. Like that's an excuse. There's so much more to life than keeping up appearances

“They know exactly what they’re looking at. Your ass looks incredible in that get up. You gotta give me the name of your tailor.

“I think you’d know better than me.”

Joker convulses with laughter, nearly losing his balance so the Bat has to hold him up to avoid making even more of a scene. The world explodes into bright spots as cameras start to flash over the pair of them.

“You know.” Joker gasps. “Sometimes I think I might have started out as a tailor.”

**Author's Note:**

> I initially wrote this aaaaaaaagggggeesss ago and am not thrilled by the characterisation but i couldn't be bothered to write a whole new story and the general concept of Joker making Bruce a suit needed to be put out into the universe soooooooo here we are
> 
> Comments are love. Come find me on [tumblr](http://jeffersonhairpie.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/chadfuture_)


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